The task in the crypt was scheduled for the following night, but fate—or perhaps the traitor's impatience—took advantage.

Callie wasn't supposed to be in the lower gallery that afternoon. She'd been sent to the butler's office to fetch clean sheets for Darian's bedroom, a mundane errand that kept her visible, useful, and under scrutiny. But the butler was delayed, and the gallery corridor—narrow, shadowy, and lined with faded tapestries—was the quickest route back to the royal wing.

She moved silently, her footsteps muffled by the threadbare carpet, when voices rose from behind a half-open servant's door.

Downstairs. Urgent. Familiar.

"...the vial must be destroyed before it reaches the crypt. If he finds it, the seal will condemn us."

Callie froze mid-stride, her heart pounding so hard against her ribs she tasted copper. The second voice, sharper and colder, was unmistakable.

Lira.

“The document worked better than expected. She’s falling apart. The king is distracted trying to